


And Feeding

by cher



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, Episode Tag, Fluff, Jossed, M/M, Post Episode 91: The Coming Storm, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 19:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13642566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cher/pseuds/cher
Summary: Martin wants to put Jon to bed.





	And Feeding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/gifts).



> Oh, live canons. I held off on posting this as long as I could since canon's throwing new information at us every week lately, but I supposed I was doomed to being Jossed no matter what. So this was written after The Coming Storm aired and, obviously, before Nothing Beside Remains.

Martin’s trying to puzzle his way through a handwritten statement that may or may not be entirely in English when he hears the stomping and the banging and the shouting. He looks around for Tim, for Melanie, but … that’s right, they went to lunch sometime during his struggle with the third paragraph. 

The shouting is getting closer, and it sounds like … Daisy? Oh, dear. That cannot be good. But there’s a second voice, and that must be Basira, so maybe it’s all right. 

Then all the noise rounds the corner, and Martin’s heart nearly stops in his chest. “Jon?” He hates the way it comes out; breathy, with a squeak. He hates that he can be so glad to see Jon again and still, _still_ be worried about looking a fool in front of him. 

Jon smiles at him, just a little, and he looks so tired, so … _battered_. Martin wants to take care of him. He always wants to take care of him, but right now he doesn’t think it’s in him to resist, even for ‘professional decorum’. Whatever Tim means by that. 

“Right,” snaps Daisy, her voice like the sound of her stomping boots. “We’re leaving him with you. Make sure he doesn’t skip town, yeah?”

Jon snorts, apparently to himself, and Basira rolls her eyes at Daisy. “He’s off the hook. But maybe don’t be alone with your creepy boss until we get to the bottom of this. Right. Hope not to see you ever again.” 

And they’re gone, before Martin can say another word, and Jon is sagging against the wall. He’s cradling his right hand against his chest, and staring back at him. “Martin,” he says, the perpetual exasperation in his voice softened right down to actual warmth, “it’s, well. It’s good to see you.”

Martin can feel his grin getting far beyond his control. It’s embarrassing but he’ll push past it, summon up that ‘grit’ he’s been privately working on developing. He puts down the pen he’s clutching, leaves the statement to its own indecipherable company, and goes over to Jon. Slowly, like approaching a skittish animal, even if he is smiling like a maniac and probably undoing the whole non-threatening impression anyway. “Jon,” he says again, and he used to know more words than that. “Jon,” as he steps close to him, reaches out his hand. Jon doesn’t flinch away; he seems to be—well, either mesmerised by the grin that won’t quit, or so tired he’s not actually tracking. It might be taking advantage, but Martin can’t prevent himself from pulling Jon into a hug. 

To his unending shock, Jon makes the most wonderful noise Martin has ever heard, as if he’s just put down an enormous weight he’s been carrying, and sags so thoroughly into Martin’s arms that he’s pushed back a step. 

“Okay!” Martin squeaks, again, damn it all. “Jon, are you all right?”

Jon—there is really no other word for it—actually _snuffles_ into Martin’s shoulder, like a puppy nosing for comfort. Martin is a marvel of science, the way he’s still supporting his own weight as well as Jon’s, with bones that have turned to taffy. Then he has to surreptitiously touch the wood of the desk behind him, for thinking thoughts that might just summon Jared. And then he has to give himself a good mental shake, because he might be quietly going to pieces in his head, but Jon is clearly in desperate need of being looked after and Martin needs to be steady. 

“Okay,” he tries again, addressing Jon’s singed-smelling, cardigan-covered shoulder. “Um. Jon, maybe, we could get you to your office—the cot’s still set up—and I’ll make you … a cup of tea?” 

Like a good citizen of London, Jon’s spine stiffens at the mention of tea, and he peels himself away from Martin’s shoulder. Martin tries not to feel bereft. 

Jon clears his throat. “Sorry, Martin,” he says, in that voice he uses when he knows he’s overstepped but isn’t going to admit it, “it’s been...a long day. Week. A long...time,” he trails off, looking around at the Archive, like someone who’s been gone a lot longer than he actually has. “I’d like that tea, if it’s not too much trouble?” 

Jon must be exhausted, because he actually seems to mean that, that Martin shouldn’t make tea for him if he has better things to do, and the loss of the old confidence in his voice breaks Martin’s heart all over again. 

“Of course, tea,” he says, carefully. “Would you like to sit down while I make it?” He starts shepherding Jon toward his office—well, maybe it’s technically Melanie’s office now; that’s awkward—because otherwise they might both be stuck being tragically polite to one another next to Tim’s desk forever. 

He lets Jon pause a moment in his office doorway, sees the lift and drop of his shoulders as he takes a deep breath, maybe seeing the office bloody and awful as it was the last time he was here. And then he steps through the door and sinks down at his desk with a groan, every line of him relaxing into relief. Martin half-hopes, half-dreads the return of Jon’s usual untouchable demeanor; this demonstrative Jon is both terrifying and endearing. 

Martin leaves him to it, his tired gaze going unerringly to the tape recorder as Martin hurries to the kitchen. 

*

When Martin returns with the tea, he notices Jon’s hand properly and almost drops the milk. “What happen—no. You ran into the Lightless Flame. Oh, Jon. I’ll take you to the hospital. I can’t believe Basira didn’t—”

“Martin, it’s fine. It’s been a few days; I just want to sleep. Here. Near people who might survive...all this.” He pauses, looks up, that same exhausted look in his eyes that Martin sees across the interview table when the digital recorder won’t work and the tape recorder will. “Where I was staying—she heard the calliope, and I just…”

Martin nods, ignoring the pang he feels at ‘she’. “I’ll tell the others to hide the knives, then. You...just drink your tea, and then get some sleep. I’ll keep watch, all right?”

And Jon is so transparent, his gratitude is like a physical presence, and Martin is still, again, going all to pieces on the inside. He wants Jon to snap and snarl and criticise, because then everything will be all right again. He wants to put Jon to bed, maybe every night forever, and see that openness. Martin’s a hopeless case, and has always known it, so there’s some mercy in that at least. He watches as Jon finishes the tea, and hopes that his thoughts are staying off of his face, or at least that Jon’s exhaustion extends to not noticing the obvious. Come to think, maybe Martin’s always been safe in this. 

Jon puts up no fight at all when Martin helps him off with his coat, off with his shoes, and pulls back the sheets on the cot. He’s falling asleep almost before Martin can pull the covers over him, and Martin can’t quite stop his hand from smoothing Jon’s hair down. He stops short of actually petting him because that would be...too much, but oh, how he wants to. 

And then he tiptoes away, switches off the light, closes the door, and stands guard in case any of the monsters show. Especially, perhaps, Elias. 

And the Archive seems to breath a sigh along with Martin. They have their Archivist back, and everything is that much less bad.


End file.
